


When the paladins come marching in

by Charles_Rockafellor



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Acedia, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Canon Divergence - The Silmarillion, Corruption, Crossover, Dark Lord, Evil, Fantasy setting, High Fantasy, Hobbits, Isekai, LOTR, Purity, Survival Horror, Third Age, canon divergence - The Hobbit, no future, no happy ending, non-canon, self-delusion, untouchable, walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charles_Rockafellor/pseuds/Charles_Rockafellor
Summary: The hero always wins, the evil is always defeated, the world is always saved -- except when things go a little bit sideways.What if Morgoth had run things directly, without Sauron at hand?Update, 05 Feb 2021:I got a bit distractedwith other stories, and then hit burn-out in Dec 2020, but still have all of my notes, so (after some uncertain delay period) there will be more to come with this story.𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆, 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒖𝒃𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒆! ❤️
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2
Collections: Dice-RPG worlds, Toxicity, Zombies of Icewall





	1. A new First Age

**Author's Note:**

> Morgoth isn't referred to explicitly by name in the story below, being called only “It”, a being of pure evil energy, but it occurs to me belatedly that this might be a poor choice of name, given Stephen King's “IT”/Pennywise (nor the “IT” of “A wrinkle in time” per [The Film Theorists](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNqr09KI25U) [nor Mary Poppins, to take things a step further with one of their earlier conjectures]); they certainly could be the same being in my story-verse, but very definitely aren't (not here, anyway, though surely it's also true that they are in an infinite number of other iterations). This might seem a redundant point to have brought up, but my fics tend to cross a lot of territory, especially considering that they're ultimately all interlinked as a larger whole.
> 
> On a tangent, Morgoth (and any number of other LotR characters) is somewhat of a powerful entity; for a semi-related study of scaling characters' relative power levels in writing and games, please see “[Superheroes: Powers and Principalities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29371374)”.

It wouldn't win this time, not in any ultimate and final way, not in the balance of all others being vanquished or crushed beneath Its heel. It knew this, but nor yet would it lose in just such a final fashion.

This cycle was to be only yet another of the many that had so far preceded, of like and kind to those many more that It could yet foresee.

As the paladin strode confidently to the gate, his honor guard warily in tow, the minion beasts gave way.

He sought to speak with It, perhaps to issue challenge if conference availed him not.

Standing there now to face It, he looked aside from the tangible force of Its radiance.

He was a good man, honest, though not without fault. He knew this, and yet in all humility understood these faults in himself as he would those in others.

These faults mattered not, nor would their absence.

Reaching forth, It bestowed a sweeping charge into him, a molten, electrifying acid that washed over him throughout, washing away all that he had been, so that now he was remade as if he were It incarnate.

He was the seventh of this ilk, and the last to be so transformed.

The cycle was now complete, and a wave of destruction would cover the land for a time.

It wouldn't win, no, but that wasn't the point. The suffering that It would so cause was the sole sweetness to be had, the glory to be reveled in, until a new cycle arose.

**O ~~~ O**


	2. There and gone again – or: a most unexpected journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick Grimes thought that he had troubles of his own. His marriage on the rocks, people shooting at him for a living -- but hey, at least it wasn't as if he were fighting dragons, right? Join us as we see just how deep the zombie hole goes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Plot Bunny inspired by [Daryldixon2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daryldixon2/pseuds/Daryldixon2) (AO3) / [Snapefan1](https://www.wattpad.com/user/snapefan1) (Wattpad). For those who came for the Tolkien, but stayed for the second chapter and have never watched/read/played “ _Walking Dead_ ” or not recognize the term “isekai”, this might be a little jarring. Please take it as read that someone from an Earth that had no zombie pop-culture now discovers himself in Middle Earth in the midst of a zombocalypse. The two weave together in chapter three, and the rest should play out relatively smoothly, so grab some popcorn and enjoy! 😀
> 
> * * *

Morgoth had ruled Middle Earth for ages, and in that time had rained down unending misery of every shade. He was the god of this world, and relished it, but even this paled over eons. Turning his sight elsewhere, he reached out for new divertissement.

=====

“Sometimes I wonder if you even care about us at all.”

That was the last thing that Lori had said to Rick that morning. Right in front of Carl, too.

That was what he was dreaming of as he struggled toward awaking.

“Doctor!”

His ribs hurt – why?

“...bite...”

He faded out for a moment.

“...fight at the inn!”

Snatches of conversation wove their way into his awareness and back out again.

“...Dead Plague...”

There was a little scuffling noise, a door closing, and the rest was silence.

More time passed, and still Rick dreamed.

At last, he awoke to the chime of a clock.

Fumbling, he looked around at a strange room, one unlike any other that he'd ever seen. Small, but well kept. Though his vision blurred, he could make out some of his surrounds. There was a light on in the corner. An oil lamp. Pitcher and glass on the end table by his head. Bed pan on the floor next to him. A bookcase.

He was stretched out across a small sofa.

Thinking on this, he fingered his wedding ring, a simple white gold band.

Missing the ceiling by only a narrow margin, he stumbled across the room, his way made more complicated by a bout of dizziness.

The hallway was round, the walls bent outward and meeting with the arcing ceiling.

_Who the hell designed this place? And why are the ceilings so low?_

Gaining the next room, open before him without any door as hindrance to his path, he found a dining room set with a spread for four, though only a single setting was present. A deep-fried chicken with another set to go on the hook by the fire, a spark screen curtaining off the hearth itself, the pot of oil also removed from the heat. His stomach lurched upon seeing this, as if it had suddenly awoken and realized that he'd neglected it for far too long. His eyes passed over the rest of the food waiting to be eaten: jams, jellies, marmalades; pan-fried trout with a creamy mustard sauce, a glazed country ham, a bowl of maple-soaked sausages; a pot of oatmeal with apple, cinnamon, and brown sugar; honey; two loaves of unsliced bread, one whole wheat, the other barley, a bread knife between them; smoked salmon, a gallon of buttermilk, elderberry tea, cornbread; roasted potatoes with carrots, string beans, pickled pearl onions, and a velvety creamy tomato sauce; lamb steaks, mushrooms with a savory bacon gravy, lard biscuits with a peppery white gravy and ground sausage, oatmeal raisin cookies, a keg of strong dark beer rich with hops, several cheeses, boiled eggs, a tub of butter, apple tarts, mangelwurzels, strawberry-rhubarb pie.

No coffee, no soda, but clearly the doctor wasn't worried about cholesterol.

His stomach growled once more.

He felt as if he hadn't eaten for days. How long had he slept? He was weak and woozy still, his mind too clouded to grapple well with this.

The ticking of a clock drew his attention. The workmanship was intricate though not overly ornate, beautiful, crafted with love and dedication. His vision wasn't clear yet, but he could tell that much. Just after seven, but the light through the window gave no clue as to whether this meal were meant to be breakfast or dinner.

He didn't wait for an invitation. It was clear that someone expected to eat, and they weren't shy about the portions. Still though, manners needed minding, and so he took only small amounts from any one dish – or he tried to, at any rate; his stomach had other ideas and demanded seconds. He'd have to look for a clean setting when he was through, to at least make up a little for having eaten their food.

Time passed, and it was still uncertainly light outside, a hazy overcast making everything soft around the edges and shifting the light to an indiscernible murky gray. Looking around, he could make out any number of small hills nearby, receding into the distance, some white and gray sheep, and some red sheep. No houses or barns, no roads beyond snatches of footpaths. A little smoke here and there, drifting in thin clouds and a few burned-out wisps. No hint of gasoline or exhaust, just wood.

Wandering through the tunnel-like halls, he could see that the odd little house had been built for comfort, but there wasn't a bit of modern technology in sight.

_No telephone, no light switches, no radio. Amish?_

The toilet was an experience. Just a washroom with a hand pump.

Having completed the rounds of the perimeter and interior rooms, he found himself once more in the dining room – or more properly dining hall, from its appointments.

Eating once more, now that his belly had had time to make room and bring this to his attention, he considered the one thing that he hadn't yet tried: some kind of cream-based glop with cabbage and spinach that he couldn't determine to be dip or soup or a side dish. It didn't look like much, but it smelled good and turned out to go well with the barley.

Determined to wait for his host's return, he made himself comfortable in the vestibule and was soon sound asleep.

Awaking once more an uncertain time later, he looked around outside again, but nothing had changed beyond a little more smoke in the air. The clock now read six something, and he still had no idea as to whether it were morning or evening, only that a good bit of time had passed without the doctor having yet returned.

Checking the food to see if anything had turned, he set the oil over the hearth with the chicken lowered into the oil and rekindled the fire, then sat and ate as much as he could before it had a chance to turn. He took his time, savoring the feeling and flavors. That doctor was one hell of a good cook.

By the time that he'd finished, he'd made fair headway into the food at hand, and was beginning to feel sleep coming on once more. The second chicken was done, and he'd already removed it from the fire. This time he brought out some of the sofa's bedding and found a more stretched-out position near the vestibule.

At last, he fell into a deep sleep.

The clock now read nine, and he was fairly certain that it was morning this time.

Still no sign of the doctor.

He had to get into town, call Lori. Let her know that he was OK, where he was... wherever this was. Call the station. Get a cab back to Cynthiana. Wait, no: call the station, Shane could pick up Lori on the way to come and get him. She'd be in a state and no condition to drive herself.

He hoped to hitch a ride into town, but...

_This place is dead._

No vehicles in sight, not even a road, but there was a pony.

He'd decided on a plan while eating a fair amount of the leftovers. His stomach wasn't rumbling the way that it had at first, but he could feel the hunger on a cellular level, as if he were vitamin deficient or something. Shaking his head and hoping to run into someone who could at least give him directions, he pulled out a sheet of paper and an ink quill from the roll top desk.

**I.O.U. 2 large meals, 2 regular meals, and a sack of food.**  
**I couldn't find your ~~refrigerator~~ icebox(?),**  
**so I bagged what would spoil soon and took it with me.**  
**Thank you for your hospitality, doc.**

 **– _Rick Grimes,_**  
**_D.S. Cynthiana, KY_**

Below this, he left his address and telephone number, then added the number for his desk at the station.

**P.S.: I'll see that your pony gets back to you once I'm in town!**

**O ~~~ O**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ▐► **For notes on how to change fonts and font colors and so forth, please see** [Fonts, and colors, and work skins, oh my!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934610)


	3. Plague rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rick at last takes his first steps down the garden path, and a beautiful and rather pregnant Hobbit makes her appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: while I fully intend to keep this a simple crossover rather than a full-blown mash-up (and I do love those as much as canon or mild-AU), and permit it to evolve by individual chapters and small arcs, I'm also tempted by the thought of post-canon Elizabeth Bennet (of “ _Pride and prejudice and zombies_ ” [the book, not the film]) being dragged into Morgoth's Middle Earth. To have her enter the mix would be only a single addition, but would also be a slippery slope. Let me know what you think in the comments! 😉 
> 
> * * *

Settling in to watch the day's events unfold, Morgoth smiled coldly as he sipped his drink and the air before him snapped into vivid sensory feedback. The room could as well have been the very land itself as the pony shuffled along the dusty path.

Rick couldn't see as far as he'd hoped, nor make out what he could see as well as he should have, but his vision hadn't yet fully cleared. The lighting was still overcast, which hardly helped, though it carried to it an almost downcast feeling as well, as if the very light itself were skulking about in its best effort not to be seen or noticed. The impression was strengthened some as he passed an overturned wagon with no horse or rider in sight.

The path led southwest to what might be termed charitably – and with no small latitude – as a secondary road, and still no sign of people or preferred direction. He went left.

The pony wasn't fast, but he didn't feel up to pushing it, and so it was some time before he passed a large pond named Bywater Pool according to the sign – the air still holding recent smoke and getting stronger – and soon another private path, and at last an inn with a sign displaying a bright green dragon rearing up with one arm pawing the air. A thatched roof over timber construction and what looked like stucco facing. Quaint, but at least less weird than the doctor's house had been **:** that one had been buried under a hill of dirt and grass; it had even had bushes growing out of it. Beyond this lay a market, but he had no chance to get a good look as a figure then lurched out from the inn's doorway, appearing to be drunk and moaning softly as it approached him.

Blinking tightly in hope of clearing his eyes, he bobbed his head some to peer closer.

The figure shuffled onward, closer by steps, seeming unaware of her surroundings. Her dress was wine-stained, her hair a mess.

“Miss?” he called to her, “Can I help you? Are you alright? Do you want me to get someone?”

Her head snapped up at this, her eyes wild and not tracking, then she rushed forward.

She clung to his leg, sobbing incoherently, and it took him some time before he could get much out of her, made worse by her frantic head swivels as he climbed down. She was a barmaid named Flora Cotton **1**.

_Yeah, but her words... she sounds like that girl from_ Poldark _, Demelza. Maybe she's from Cornwall and here visiting family?_

She said something about a “Roper” Gamgee being dead in the prime of his life, and his son Hamfast having been somewhere about, but having no idea of his brothers and sister. This got his attention.

“Ma'am, let's go inside and sit for a minute, OK? I'll find you something to drink and you can tell me everything, and I'll... I'll find these kids, I promise. But what's this about a dead man? Was there an accident? A robbery?”

She stood stock still suddenly, her head twitching a little as she listened to the silence all around.

“We have to leave! Now!” she replied in a low hiss, beginning to scrabble at the stirrups, “Right now!”

“I'm a deputy, ma'am. My name is Rick Grimes; Deputy Sheriff Grimes. If there's something wrong, I'll look into it, but right now I need you to slow down a little and tell me what happened.”

Her panic was clearly still in full throttle, but she managed to breathe more deeply now, still looking in every direction as if expecting a riotous mob to arrive at any moment.

“There was trouble two nights back. Old Twofoot came a'stumbling in and he weren't in good shape. I had just tapped out a barrel and was going to the cellar for another when I heard the crash. I came back up a few steps only to hear the moans and the screams something terrible. I waited, but it didn't get any better at all. An hour passed, but the door was jammed tight shut, and still there were screams to come, here and there, from the street.

“I drifted off to this, and when I awoke I just knew that it had come here at last, the Plague was here, so when I finally got out, it weren't a surprise that... they were–” she couldn't finish, staring at the doorway that she'd come from, her breath now in ragged, uneven strokes as her torso wove in place.

“Alright, Flora,” he said, holding her shoulders in a soothing way, then gesturing toward the inn, “I want you to just stay here a minute, and I'll go look inside–”

“No! Ye can't do that! We have to get out of here immediately!”

He could make out her dress a bit better now, and still couldn't see clearly enough to really investigate anything, but he could see well enough to make out that those weren't wine stains. That, and going in blind wouldn't help her any if he wound up dead.

Pulling the whiskers along his chin – _What is this; it feels like a month's growth? How... when?_ – he shook his head sharply and came to a decision. Nodding to her, he reached down to her waist and lifted her to the saddle. She was a small woman, proportionate, but not tall or heavy at all. _Dwarfism, maybe?_ A moment later, he was up behind her, reins in hand as they started moving.

“Do you know the way to the sheriff's station?”

“The shirriffs?” she asked, the word sounding strange with her accent, “They could be anywhere, but with the Plague here, I don't think you'll be finding them of much help.”

He nodded, realizing even as he did so that she couldn't see this, “Ma'am, if you could just point the way, I'd be obliged.”

“But that's just it,” she said, “they aren't stationary, they rove about whither needed.”

“Alright, maybe the town council, or the mayor's office?”

“Well, there's Frogmorton to the east, or Waymoor a bit farther away to the west. Waymoor's larger, but neither's safe like this. We have to get the kids and anyone else to the woods or mountains, far from the Shire. Ooh – my family!” she gasped the last, beginning to realize the enormity of it all.

Rick slowed the pony. Frogmorton and Waymoor meant nothing to him, but there were always small towns and villages that he'd never heard of, hidden away just around the bend.

“There must be someone around here, someone nearby. Look, I'll try a few doors, and–“

She began to tremble violently, shaking her head, “You can't do that, Mister Grimes!” she insisted, “They're here. Don't you understand? It's the Plague!”

He moved his hat back to run his fingers through his hair for a moment at this, trying to work out the best angle to come at it.

“It's Deputy Grimes, or just plain Rick is fine,” he began, “Now, you've said that three times already. What's this about a plague?”

“Can we get out of sight first then, Deputy Grimes? If we're to keep talking, we can't be doing it here where they'll see us!”

“Who? Who'll see us?”

“Them. The dead.”

**O ~~~ O**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1** Flora Cotton: Original character. I say this because in a story world with as large and diverse a tapestry as Tolkien's, even a thoroughly immersed researcher could miss non-canonicity, and I don't want to drive anyone bonkers with trying to track down a non-existent character.
> 
> Rick arrived in Morgoth's AU Middle Earth in what would have been TA 2941 (SR 1341), the in-story year that “ _The Hobbit_ ” began. In LotR, Sam Gamgee eventually marries the barmaid Rosie Cotton, who is the daughter of Lily [Brown] Cotton and Tomlin Cotton. Given the dates and character ages involved in the canon, continuity hardly permits the use of Rosie in this story, nor even of Lily beyond her possibly being a toddler or so. Flora is intended to be Lily's mother (hence Rosie's maternal grandmother).
> 
> Lily's maiden name is Brown, hence Flora's married (or perhaps out-of-wedlock) name would presumably have been Brown. The fact that it's Cotton here does hint at some sort of irregularity or impropriety, but is meant only to allude to the general minutiae of life. It isn't a plot point. For all that I know, she could well have married her cousin, or be completely unrelated by the same name, or have adopted into the family.
> 
> Given that this AU has had approximately 7,000 years to evolve along radically different lines, anything particularly similar to canon makes little to no sense, much less people, recent place-names, any events since the branching point, etc., but it's still fun to imagine some paralleling. Time travel would permit Rosie to be present, as would an accordioning of already unlikely parallels, but Flora feels like a less implausible vehicle for this tale.


End file.
